Morning
by unsettledfic
Summary: Roger likes mornings.


Title: Morning

Fandom: Body of Lies

Pairing: Hani/Roger

Rating: NC-17

Word Count: 1140

Disclaimer: Only wish they were mine.

Summary: Roger likes mornings.

Author's Note: For sizerly's help-pakistan offering. Suit!porn, although it went off in other directions as well. Hope you like it!

Roger likes mornings.

He likes the cool of the air, teasing, with that taste to it that tells him it won't be long before he's sweating from the heat. He likes the light streaming from the window, turning skin to liquid gold and tempting, so tempting. He likes the brush of crumpled sheets and rough stubble and skin already flushed.

He likes waking up next to Hani.

Hani tends to lie on his back, arms folded under his head. Roger likes to lie next to him, staring up at the ceiling, touching at hip and ankle and where Roger's shoulder settles under Hani's raised arm, his hand tracing meaningless, endless circles onto Hani's stomach, caught in the dark curls, winding them round his fingers and carding the hair absently, almost unaware of his fascination until Hani rolls over and stops him with a growl and rough lips and those are wonderful mornings.

Some days, Roger prefers to settle on his side, pressed tight to Hani, head resting on his chest, and Hani talks, quietly, about things that aren't important to anyone else. Sometimes Roger can understand what Hani says; other times, he's too caught up in the low rumble of Hani's voice vibrating through his chest, under Roger's ear, and that, combined with Hani sliding his fingers through Roger's hair, tangling the fine hairs and smoothing the wildness with the palm of his hand, sends Roger into a quiet, mindless state of bliss that leaves him giddy for the rest of the day.

Some mornings, Hani gains consciousness first, and Roger wakes to drowsy kisses and warm hands, already half hard and his first words are moans of _oh_, and _yes_, and _Hani_.

Roger thinks he might like it best when Hani gives in to inevitability and rises, slides out of Roger's arms and stands; Roger always rolls over into the warm hollow left, still smelling faintly of _Hani_, and watches Hani dress.

Hani gathers his clothes from where he'd left them the night before, draws on dark boxers and lightweight pants of some shade that isn't quite black, but sucks in light in the same manner. Pulls on a new white undershirt, yawning, and that is always the moment Roger is most likely to simply jump him and drag him back to bed; barefoot and bare armed, trousers - creased sharply enough to cut Roger if he was fool enough to run his finger along them - hanging open, skin glowing warmly against the stark coolness of his clothing, and always, always, thick dark curls of hair escaping from the neck of the undershirt, a shadow under the fabric, more revealed when Hani raises his arm and reaches for a shirt. Roger's mouth _waters_.

He's sure Hani knows this, because he often pauses, shirt in hand, to glance at Roger and smile.

Then Hani pulls on his shirt, and that's its own kind of tempting, as Hani slowly fastens it, cuffs hanging open as his fingers working at tiny, gleaming buttons, from the hollow of his neck to the tails trailing his thighs; tucks them in and zips his trousers, buttons them and slides smooth, burnished leather through the loops, until the classic gold buckle is drawn tight against his stomach. He drapes a tie around his neck, knots it unhurriedly, and Roger gets lost watching those fingers, always a little jealous. Hani laughs at his half windsors and decrees his taste in ties distinctly inferior.

Hani always sits on the edge of the bed to pull on socks and shoes, back to Roger, and Roger never resists the temptation to flatten his palms against the muscles of Hani's back, warming his fingers through the fine cotton. There's a moment when Hani leans back into his hands that - for some reason - tightens his throat. _My life in your hands_, and Hani would never say it; but he never has to.

There's a breath, and then Hani turns toward him, holds out a wrist with an expectant twist to his lips, and Roger isn't even fazed by this anymore. It's a comforting ritual, sliding the surprisingly heavy gold links through the button holes of Hani's cuffs, turning them so the barely raised H parallels Hani's arm, aligned the same on both sides.

Today, Roger is pulled in by the thrum of blood under his fingers, where they rest on the underside of Hani's wrists, and he pulls Hani's hand upward, tugs the sleeve down the barest fraction so he can press his lips to that heady pulse. He mouths it delicately, licks it and puffs out a warm breath onto the skin. Hani shivers.

He moves his lips up Hani's wrist, nipping lightly at the thin skin, until his mouth touches cuff; he slides his tongue between fabric and skin, traces the line of fabric onto Hani's arm and takes the medallion of the cufflink between his teeth. Pulls, gently, teasingly, the sharp taste of metal curling his tongue, and Hani lets out a soft curse in Arabic and wrenches his hand away, curls it behind Roger's head and pulls him up to bite at his lips, to thrust his tongue behind Roger's teeth, a brutal, hungry kiss. Roger places his hand on Hani's chest; "Watch the shirt," Hani whispers into his mouth, and Roger whines and stiffens his fingers to keep them from curling into the fabric, wrinkling it.

Hani lets himself be lured forward, on top of Roger, and slides down to kneel between his legs, the sensation of fabric on Roger's skin nearly doing him, too much, too much. Hani kisses the inside of his knee, the slope of his thigh, the shadowed hollow at the crease of his leg, and finally, his cock, wraps his lips around it and sucks. Normally Hani teases and draws Roger out until he's begging, mindlessly and wordlessly and unable to stop moving, hips shifting desperately, but Roger's already at that point and Hani knows it. He slides his tongue down the underside of Roger's cock and presses his lips tight behind the head and i_sucks/i_, and Roger's done for.

Hani leans forward, looms over him on hands and knees and ducks his head to kiss Roger's panting mouth. Roger presses his tongue against the roof of Hani mouth and tastes the salty musk of come.

Hani sighs against his lips, and then sits back. "I have to go," he says, and Roger can hear the irritation in his tone, that he'd like nothing more than to say hang work and stay here. He stands, still pristine and flawless, and slides his arms into a dark, double-breasted jacket. He bends over Roger. "Don't be too late," he says, and kisses Roger's temple.

Roger smiles and stretches in a bed smelling of sex and the best ways to wake up.


End file.
